It was my fall
by Grace Fury
Summary: Post Reichenbach, from Sherlock's POV. John doesn't exactly welcome Sherlock home with open arms. Oneshot


**Okay so this is my story post Reichenbach but from the POV of Sherlock not John (this is based on the BBC's version with Benedict and Martin). I wrote this as platonic friendship but you can read it as slash if you want**

I could hear the distress in John's voice as we were on the phone and it near enough broke my heart. I know I'm not the most emotional or the most sentimental but I do care, especially about John. I didn't want to jump, I really didn't. I enjoyed my time with John, I liked having a friend to assist me on cases and I genuinely think that he liked me too. He was the only one; the only person in the _world_ who tolerated me. Even my own parents and my brother thought I was a freak. Yet there I stood, throwing it all away by faking my own death.

He was distraught and I was too. I got carried away on the stretcher by some of the nurses working with Molly, completely aware of John grasping for my hand before being blocked by other members of the public. I knew then that we were being separated for a very long time and I didn't know what I was going to do with myself.

I spent the time, at first, sat in a tree hidden from view near my grave. Every day, I saw John come to my grave and talk to it, and every day it hurt me more. Six months after 'it' happened, John told me, or rather my grave, that he was going to see his therapist again. I couldn't let him face that alone so I followed him there. As he was walking I saw that his limp had returned and that pang in my chest reoccurred. I'd been getting a lot of 'feelings' lately and it wasn't particularly nice to be honest. Every time it happened it felt like I was being stabbed in the chest and I would have to stop and take some deep breath.

I, ever since I met John, have been confused. Although I could figure him out on a trivial front, deeper than that I got nothing; I just couldn't understand him. Why on earth would he live with me, go on cases with me, tolerate me? Well I guess it's all in the enigma that is, John Watson.

I've stopped eating again. I only really started to please John; I still believe it slows my thought process. In the beginning, Molly used to bring me food but she's given up now because she always found it untouched. When she said, in the lab, that I look sad when I think John can't see me, I thought she was being stupid; until now, when he actually can't.

There are days when it's really bad, when I can't say his name or think about him because it hurts me so much. The worst thing is, no one can help me because no one knows I'm alive. At least John thinks there is no way of ever seeing me again whereas I have to live out my life each day knowing that I'm only a cab drive away from him but I'm not allowed to see him. The pain of knowing is the worst. On those days I'm so tempted just to go back to John and 221B Baker Street but I know that it's too risky when some of Moriarty's hit men are still out there. I don't want all of the pain to have been for nothing but it's just so tempting to see him again.

Anonymously, I had to tell Lestrade about John because I was worried about him. He kept going to the pharmacist, weekly, and I was scared he was going to do something stupid, something irreversible. Turns out I was right. He had been storing all these tablets in his bathroom cupboard and, under interrogation, he admitted he was going to use them at once, to overdose. For me, that was the final straw. I was adamant I was going home within the week, I couldn't take it anymore. It was so frustrating!

Due to my increase in determination, I found Moriarty's last hit man in two days. This was it, I was going home. The thought of seeing John again made me feel happy and excited. It was decided that I would tell Lestrade and then go and see John at 221B. However, because I couldn't be bothered wasting my time seeing Lestrade, I texted him that I was alive, got Mycroft to confirm it for me so that he would believe me, and went straight to John. I couldn't wait to see him again. Such excitement for something other than a murder scene was new to me but I embraced it as a new experiment.

As I walked up to 221B I saw that nothing had changed. My key still fit in the lock and the click that it made on turning was so satisfying. I pushed open the door and I could tell that Mrs. Hudson had just got home. I heard her shuffling footsteps as she came out of her living area and into the hallway. Her eyes went wide as she saw me and her hand flew to her mouth. After a moment of silence she took her hand down and smiled at me.

'Sherlock?'

'It's really me, Mrs. Hudson.'

'But how?'

'How about I explain that another day? The most important thing right now is that I'm home.'

'Of course dear, John's upstairs as always,' she gave me a knowing smile.

'Thank you.'

I made my way up the stairs and stopped in front of the door of our apartment. I knew that I'd be able to just walk in, the door was never locked. I took a deep breath, nervous now, and pushed open the door. Immediately, the strong smell of alcohol hit me and I started to panic. I walked in, barely making a sound, and I could hear the clatter of glasses in the kitchen. I made it to the middle of the living room before I saw any sight of John. There he was, sat on the kitchen floor, shot glass in hand and a bottle of vodka next to him. He looked fairly drunk but not so much that it was dangerous; thank god. I walked over to him and crouched down to his level.

'John, stop this.' I expected shock and kind words but, strangely, the response I got was,

'Oh hi Sherlock, that time already?'

'What do you mean?' I responded.

'I always see you at six o'clock, I expect it now, and it's actually kind of comforting.'

_He doesn't think I'm real. _

That thought hit me hard. I couldn't bear the weight of what I'd done to John. My heart was breaking, shattering into a thousand pieces. I always thought I was above such a notion and here I was being reduced to watery eyes by the average John Watson. I started to get silently frustrated, _how dare he think I'm not real; how dare he not welcome me home with open arms after all this time and after all my efforts._ But, on the other hand, I knew this wasn't his fault, _I did this to him; he probably hates me now; I want to, need to, comfort him._

As I reached for the bottle and took it off him it was like he sobered instantaneously.

'S-Sherlock?'

'Yes John.'

'But how?'

'I'll tell you in good time, how about we get you over to the settee and I'll make you some tea?'

John stood up with my aid and then, realising his situation, donned a face of stone, stood straighter and stalked off to his bedroom. Seconds later, I heard the door slam shut.

'J-John?' I whispered.

I had no idea what had just happened so I left the kitchen and went up the stairs, coming to a halt in front of John's bedroom door.

'John?' I asked again but this time I had a hope of an answer.

'Do you want to know how I knew it was really you?'

'Yes John.'

'Because you could touch things, you could actually take that bottle off me for the first time and save me from drowning my sins until I passed out,' I heard his voice crack but he continued, 'I had to accept that it was you then because you never, in the three fucking years you were gone, came back to do that for real did you?'

Part of me knew I deserved this but it still hurt. If he knew, for one second, why I did what I did maybe, just _maybe_, he wouldn't be so angry with me,

'John please, let me-'

'Save it Sherlock, I don't want to know,' he said this with a tone of finality, 'do you know what hurts the most Sherlock?'

'No, explain it to me. Help me understand.'

'Now that you're back, now that I know you're alive and healthy, I also know that you _chose_ to leave me, to abandon me. When I thought you were dead I thought it was because Moriarty made you, that you had no choice. I thought I knew you were never coming back. But now you're here, and I'm really fucking glad Sherlock, I am, I couldn't live without you, but do you know how it feels to discover that your supposed _best _friend _chose_ to leave you?'

By this point, tears were streaming down my face and my breathing was quick and shallow. Whilst I didn't expect John to welcome me with completely open arms, I did not expect this. Right now, I honestly, truly _hate_ myself. For the three years I was gone, I have been living my life with the knowledge that one day I'd get to see John again but I left him thinking he'd never get to experience the thrill of life in my shadow ever again. However, that was exactly the problem. John was _never _in my shadow to start with, yet he still believed he was. He is an intelligent man who sees far more than he lets on or is given credit for. He is able to make brilliantly accurate analyses of human bodies and he had the patience of a saint. He is the heart to my head and I have suffered long enough without him to just let him ignore me now. As I think all these things I realise it's him I should be telling,

'Listen, John...'

_The end. _


End file.
